


where prayer has been valid

by staarked



Category: The Fixer - Jennifer Lynn Barnes
Genre: Angst, Complete, Drama, F/M, Future Fic, Mild Sexual Content, One Shot, Post Book #1, Romance, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-13 00:27:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5687524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staarked/pseuds/staarked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She lifts her eyes, stiffly, up at him, and he’s never had faith in a god before, but for three steamboats of branching minutes, he almost finds religion. “This is the part where I tell you it doesn’t mean anything.” - Henry Marquette/Vivvie Bharani.</p>
            </blockquote>





	where prayer has been valid

**Author's Note:**

> To be honest, I don’t even understand how I end up shipping most doomed of the ships. I couldn’t help the fact that Tess pointed out that Henry and Vivvie were having a silent conversation, that Henry kept cutting glance towards her and Vivvie and that Vivvie parroted someone telling her she’s an acquired taste. Seriously, what's a girl got to do?

 

_“Everything I’ve ever let go of  
has claws marks on it.”_

 

—

 

 

He’s thought about her the same way he’s thought about everything else, lately and in passing. There’s really not much to think about when his head spirals into twenty different directions under the weight of a secret that is his to keep and hers to bear, it’s not a fair equation whichever way you look at it.

“For what it’s worth, I am sorry,” He takes in the alarmed widening of her eyes, the way her shoulder sag in relief, the manner in which her fingers twitch imperceptibly, and it _occurs_ to him that this girl has never known much kindness yet naively expects it in fleeting snippets of broken heartbeats best forgotten, “You didn’t deserve it even if your father certainly did.”

He’s not the boy she is used to. It’s a mistake on her part to forget that so easily and an endeavour on his to teach her _not_ to.

“Yeah, Henry,” the attempt to stifle down the naked hurt in her face is hasty yet five seconds too late, and for a moment, her stricken reaction is the balance required to stain their equation fair. But then, the moment passes and he’s not the boy she is used to but he’s still the boy who threaded his fingers through her hair in third grade and pulled it because he was implacably fascinated by the unusual colour, so there’s no fooling to be had here. “The knowledge that he did doesn’t make it any less difficult.”

He’s surprised to note how misguided his sense of fairness starts to feel when it’s her eyes filling with tears and her back turning his way.

 

 

—

 

 

He remembers the first time he’d tripped her in World History and he remembers the next time he’d tripped John Thomas Wilcox in World History because he’d tried to trip her. He remembers how years later she’d showed up in the same classroom wearing the ugliest turtleneck and a batch of ill-concealed bruises peeking through the severe neckline although there had been no one to trip her.

 

 

—

 

 

It’s only by his second glass of scotch that he realizes he’s still looking at her even when he is looking away, noticing things that are there and things that aren’t. The slight smudge in her smile that looks so much more like a frown, the embarrassment in the bend of her head as she gently tries to turn down an offer of drinks, likely spiked, the discomfort outlining the curve of her spine when the older man persists.

“Vivvie.”

The grip at her elbow slackens and the relief in her eyes is nearly blinding. He’s never been successful in saving anyone before but he thinks he’d like to. Try and save her. Or try something, not as cheesy, when he’s slightly less inebriated. “Henry.”

The leap in his jaw is accompanied by the withdrawal of man previously fascinated by prospective jailbait. “You _should_ be home.”

The jailbait, in question, looks up at him from underneath impossibly long eyelashes, more out of stupor than he’d originally believed, and he feels the blood drain from his knuckles when he realizes the implications of what his tardiness might have entailed.

“I should be a lot of things I am not.” Her frown deepening until it’s a scowl.

“Yeah?” He asks, leaning in across the counter - forcing her head up to catch his frame - to push the glass away from her line of sight. “Like what?”

The movement proves too much to be accommodated by her addled brain, she topples from her seat. Eyes shut. Braced for the fall. He reaches out and catches her before she hits the floor.

“A little less orphan for starters.”

She flails in his arms, squirming relentlessly, till the friction is enough to make the blood in his stream rush downwards and he can map out the exact moment she feels _it_ because her spine stiffens and she stops, only to lift her eyes and stare at him with open mortification and childlike piety. _“Henry?”_

The embarrassment makes inroads in his system for three fractions of a lost eternity before he shuts it out in favour of tightening his hold on her. “I am taking you home.” He announces around a mouthful of teeth, the words honed sharp on pretence revulsion and unwarranted want.

“ _I don’t have a home_ ,” she points out softly and, just as easily, he’s sick with the need that steals into his body. 

It would have funny if it wasn’t so pathetic already.

He steps back to allow her a mockery of personal space. “Just for tonight,” the pluck of consonants on his tongue is hard enough to make them lose meaning, “you do.”

 

 

—

 

 

The silence is more disturbing than the length of her skirt. He looks and pretends he’s not looking and it’s only when he swerves the car unsuccessfully, to no avail except, to crash it into the tree trunk that he realizes the irrevocable stupidity of the act. They are forced to walk their way back to his house, the night air thick with too much of a forgotten history and the drag of her steps heavier with every word left unsaid.

 

 

—

 

 

He’s settled on the sofa by the time she gets back, and for a lifetime spanning seconds, she just stands there, eyeing the bed with palpable discomfort. The expression on her face falling increasingly exposed against the alcohol coursing in her veins. “I can’t take your bed.”

He laughs and it’s _not_ funny. “Would you prefer the floor then?”

She’s in front of him before he can stop, fists clenched at the sides and wild desperation bleeding through every stretched muscle in her body as she bends down across from the sofa. “Please,” she begs and he can nearly taste the self-hatred in the half-voiced supplication, it’s a part of her he will keep with him until he no longer can, “ _please_ , I just don’t want to be alone.”

He reaches for before he’s thought it through.

Pulls her to her feet with a snap of his hand and draws her up over the sofa until she’s on top of him, dangling weightless in his arms, with her head resting against his thudding chest. The space is too cramped for her to be curved over him in such a way and if he lets himself think about it long enough, it’s just like the summer she broke her own heart but they’re not twelve and it’s not.

“Stop being so tense,” her breath fans out across the crook of his neck and the shift of her body serves no purpose other than the betrayal of her words and his body. He feels sorry for her on a splintered timeline. Sorry for how hard she has to struggle to grasp at normalcy. Sorry for how difficult it is for her to ignore the press of his arousal. Not sorry enough for how much he wants to peel off her clothes and steal parts of her she might not be willing to give. “It’s _not_ like your virtue is in danger with me.”

He flips her over in a flash, looming atop her.

Caution lies abandoned five minutes back on the clock and he can hardly hear the storm of his thoughts above the beat of her heart in his ears. “It’s like your virtue _is_ in danger with me.”

She stills before she moves closer, eyes drifting to his lips, and sanity sifting beyond her fingers. "Says who?"

And when she kisses him, he’s lost to all sounds.

 

 

—

 

 

Somehow, it’s not about the dip of her body or the curl of her mouth. Somehow, it’s about the forced bravado in her eyes, her sweater on the floor and the fading bruises she can’t hide.

_He stops._

 

 

_—_

 

 

The sunlight breaks through his window in the morning, letting her dark hair catch light in a manner that makes his fingers ache and the distance between them overwhelming. She doesn’t, _can’t_ , look at him as she starts to dress and he wants to catch her eyes, pin her in place with everything he says and everything he doesn’t, and keep her here so badly.

“Is this the part where you tell me it _can’t_ mean anything?” He asks, just for the sake of asking.

She lifts her eyes, stiffly, up at him, and he’s never had faith in a god before, but for three steamboats of branching minutes, he almost finds religion. “This is the part where I tell you it _doesn’t_ mean anything.”

“And do you believe this part then?” He wonders pleasantly, from his upright position on the sofa, noticing the sudden tremble of her hand around a half closed button. She forces it out of the loop and lets her head drop to the floor. She's suddenly so small.

“I don’t _want_ to.” The sob rips from her throat, unbidden, and he’s by her side before the tears start to fall.

Stumbling into her frame, he buries his face in her hair and pulls her close until he can hear her bones shift under her clothes and feel her skin under the palm of his hands.

“You don’t have to,” He whispers soothingly, willing his hands to pronounce soundless apologies. The tears soak through his shirt, leaving wet imprints on his chest, and when she moves away to catch air in her lungs, she’s as lost as him. “Vivvie.”

“Henry, I-” She begins.

He forces the words short.

_And doesn’t let go._

 

_—_

 

 

 

Tess stops him in the hallway and he likes how she doesn’t ask questions even when his eyes dart away, searchingly, from her till they find and settle on Vivvie. The space between them is charged with possibilities too fragile to voice.

She’s the first to look away.

He _tries_ not to mind.

_It is his to keep and hers to bear._

 

 

_-_

 

**Author's Note:**

> So, I am down with fever and that is just a valid excuse for writing bad fanfics and expecting reviews while staying in bed. Spare me a few seconds and leave your thoughts with me, if you will. :)


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